The Adventures of Zombie Matthew Crawley
by seaofwords
Summary: Decidedly a bit of a crack fic and certainly AU, although it may follow the events of Season 4 loosely. Matthew Crawley certainly seems to have "such good luck." Not only did he survive the war and inherit two fortunes, but now he's evaded death... but at what price? Just when he's finally gotten used to being an aristocrat, he now has to deal with being undead!
1. Chapter 1

_Greetings, all. First of all, for those of you who saw an update from me and thought it was my locked door fic, I'm sorry. I promise I'll update that soon, tonight even. However, I've had the idea for this bouncing around in my head ever since Halloween (when I went as Zombie Matthew). I had a blast, and had considered the idea of continuing his adventures beyond the bit of tomfoolery from that night. I know someone else is also writing a zombies at Downton fic, and although I'm sure it's excellent, I haven't read it yet, so any overlap is purely coincidental at this point. Anyways, what follows is just a bit of fun and certainly not my best writing (if you're looking for something more serious in tone, check out my "I Really Should Lock the Door" fic instead) but I've amused myself writing it and I hope it provides you some small piece of entertainment too. With that, enjoy!_

People expect dying to be some dramatic juncture between this world and the next, where your entire life pauses in a fermata for you to hear all your escapades and emotions rush before your eyes in ears in a final crescendo before you dramatically plunge into the abyss.

The truth, for me at least, was leagues less dramatic.

One minute I was cruising along, literally having the time of my life. Breeze in my hair, sunshine on face, new baby back at home… the next I saw the lorry up ahead. My hands jerked the wheel, swerving quickly to the left, and as I jerked off the road, as I felt myself go airborne, the only thoughts coursing through my mind were more like. "Well shit. Well shit!"

Perhaps, for a moment, my mind reconvened with that long ago moment in Amiens, as I again sailed through the air to my impending doom, for I remember, as I smacked the ground, wondering belatedly if my legs would still work after this. Then I glanced up and happened to see my car coming straight down at me. Rather than panicking, my brain remarked rather resignedly, "Well, damn. That's going to hurt."

Then everything went black.

When I awoke sometime later, everything was still black. I wondered, for a moment, if I had entered some paranormal, interdimensional reality. Perhaps I was just a mind adrift among the cosmos, contemplating my existence for the rest of eternity.

I attempted to be contemplative for a few minutes, but honestly my head hurt too much to sift through memories. Besides, I used to attempt that strategy back in the trenches, and found it none too effective. A man can go mad from memories, from grasping at lost moments, or puzzling over what-ifs. Instead, I turned my attention to listing all the laws, codes, and statutes I could think of; although hardly exciting, it was bound to take up a few decades of time.

By the 23rd law, I was exhausted with that venture. Besides, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that I was again in the trenches. Originally I had disregarded the scent of earth as a bad memory, but now I decided it was far too pungent to be my imagination. Furthermore, as I felt around, attempting to shift my body, I became aware that I was in a cramped, dark space.

Oh God, was I still in the war? Had the past several years of my life all been a dream? I flailed more incessantly, searching for any clues, but there were no signs of any others, nor any military gear. That boded well for ruling that theory out, and some of my anxiety began to subdue.

Still, I swore if I got out of here, and found that I was still in the bloody trenches and it's, say, 1916, I would legitimately shoot someone, and I'm not even sure they would be German.

_Collect yourself, Crawley_, I thought, and again took inventory of my surroundings. The ground below me was soft, plush even, although it felt more firm beneath. Above me appeared to be some long panel of wood, and whatever this was has curved over to the other sides above my head. There was not much space between my chest and this roof, but I could maneuver my arms a bit, rather awkwardly.

I was still flummoxed as to how I even got in this situation, but I didn't allow my mind to dwell on that quandary, lest the panic and war memories set in again. Instead I focused on my escape.

Although the wood above seemed sturdy at first, when I pressed on it again I thought I sensed some give. Betting on this as my best (and possibly only) option, I began to press and pound against it. The whole structure made a dull, thunderous boom with each slam of my fist, but I could feel it starting to crack as I shook it.

At last a divine crack resounds. My fingers felt for the split and began to mercilessly tear at it, totally disregarding splinters. I shredded my way through the wood, creating an opening wide enough for my fist first, then my whole arm. More dirt began to spill on me, but I couldn't be bothered with that now. I thrashed my legs and arms more, ripping away more and more desperately at the earth avalanching in around me. Dirt cascaded into my hair and down on my face; I clamped my mouth and eyes shut tightly and continued to scrape away. The earth beneath my fingers began to feel harder and colder, yet my fingers dug savagely through it; the desire for escape becoming more potent than any resistance. At last, one hand felt chilly, weightless air, and more eagerly I worked to churn the mess above my head until at least I dragged myself out of the hole!

Rolling off the sunken pit, I steadied myself for a minute, brushing the endless amounts of dirt from my face and hair. Finally, I rolled to take in my surroundings.

The night was practically pitch black, and the air had more of a bite to it than I had first realized. At my first glance, it appeared I was surrounded by rows and rows of spectres. Oh God, was I somehow surrounded deep behind German lines? My head ducked instinctually to the ground, and I listened.

All around me was silence. Hardly the atmosphere one would expect if they were trapped in the middle of an enemy camp. Cautiously I raised my head from the crook of my elbow, and realized the figures were not people, but gravestones. I was in the graveyard at Downton.

But why?

I turned more fully on my side to survey the pit from whence I had come, and suddenly a large pillar caught my eye.

I stared at it, transfixed, my mouth agape with horror, as I tried to understand the words on the marker.

_Matthew Reginald Crawley_

_Beloved Husband and Father_

_1885-1921_

When I finally could pry my eyes away from the sight, I immediately began to retch violently. Nothing came up - God knows when I ate last- but I couldn't stop convulsing, the awful bilious sensation filling my body, which shook violently.

Finally, when I had exhausted myself with my response, I mustered my spirits to take further inventory of my surroundings.

The first thing I noted was that there was no gravestone for Mary. _Thank God_, I thought, some relief lifting the tension in my shoulders.

A more troubling thought crossed my mind though?

What time was it? For all I know, it could be two hundred years into the future, and she might be dead elsewhere. I immediately set out to allay this growing fear.

I rose unsteadily to my feet, putting my back immediately to the hideous shape behind me. I proceeded as quickly as I could to scour the graveyard for the freshest markers. Frustratingly, I made slow going; it was like when I had just regained use of my legs again. Any attempt at agility was fruitless; alas, I paced, stiff-legged, between the headstones. Fortunately, I didn't have far to journey, as my path soon crossed a freshly-dug grave. Scanning the headstone, I determined that it was sometime in February 1922.

Which brought me to the final, most pressing question: what was I doing here?

I studied myself as adequately as I could in the limited lighting and rather barren. Still, having grown up with two parents in the medical profession had its uses. It was hard to tell through the dirt, but my flesh looked fine, perhaps a bit pale. I tested and sensed a faint pulse. I took several breaths of air and there seemed to be no difficulties. I certainly felt alive.

So why on earth had I been buried in graveyard for several months?

I screwed up my eyes and ran my hand through my grimy hair, trying to think back.

_Scotland… I had been hunting… and Mary had been there. And the whole family._

_But she had left early… because… because we were going to have a baby!_

_Wait, no, we had had the baby! A son! We had a son! It had been the best moment of my life, holding him in my arms (don't tell Mary)! I was positively overjoyed! I had to tell the family… I was racing back to the Abbey…_ then nothing.

Something must have happened then, something that had thrown me into a coma for months, and somehow they must have proclaimed me dead and buried me.

My parents had told me rare cases of this happening before. This was the only logical explanation.

No matter, everything would be fixed now.

I made way out of the cemetery and started heading down the street towards Crawley House, when I paused in my tracks.

My mother was a resilient woman; I don't think a person in the world would argue that. But, somehow I didn't think all the fortitude in the world could quite prepare her for the shock of seeing her supposedly dead son burst into the house in the middle of the night. As much as I wanted to waltz right in, this matter would have to be approached delicately. After all, for all of her tenacity, my mother was getting up there in years, and it'd be the epitome of tragedy if she had a heart attack upon discovering that I was alive again. I wasn't willing to risk it, especially after what happened with my father...

And Mary… I couldn't even begin to fathom what Mary must have gone through these past six months. I know if anything had happened to her, I would have felt as if my heart had been ripped out. I'd probably still be walking around like one of the living dead. As much as I longed to go comfort her instantly, again my better senses reasoned this might not be the best approach to the situation.

What I needed was a confidant, a liaison, who would be able to stomach the initial reaction and then help me break the news slowly to the rest of the family…

I knew just the man.

_Coming up next, some of Downton's favorite bromance... and also Mary. I'll try to get lighter in tone; this was a bit more serious than I had intended._


	2. Chapter 2

"JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH!" Tom Branson yelped, then continued with a long strand of Irish expletives as he stumbled frantically backwards in the garage, groping for the door. Unfortunately, he tripped over a toolbox and fell hard to the ground. That didn't stop him from attempting to scuttle away from me, still swearing and staring at me wide eyed.

"Tom! Tom! Tom!" I shouted, trying to get his attention, but it wasn't working. I decided to go for a different tactic, shifting to the tone of voice I had used in the trenches to try and calm the men under fire. "Thomas Branson, stop moving this instant. You're in no danger here. I came to talk to you, and I need your help."

It worked much better than I had expected, as Branson did pause in his escape attempts, although he still stared at me like I had crawled out of hell itself. Perhaps I had. No, stop, you were just in a coma, I chastised myself firmly.

"Please Tom," I implored again, my voice going softer. "You're the closest thing I ever had to a brother, and the only one I think can help me here."

Branson seemed to snap out of his trance a bit. "Christ, Matthew… what… what happened to you?"

"I… I don't know," I said, seating myself on the hood of the car, and pressing my face into my hands. "The last thing I remember is that Mary and I had just had our son, and I was driving back to tell everyone. Next thing I know I'm lying in the dark. Thinking I'm back in the trenches, I dig myself out, and find out I've been lying in a cemetery for the past six months."

Tom looked at me incredulously, "That's all you remember? Really?"

I nodded exhaustedly.

"Matthew, you were in a horrible accident."

"I mean, I had figured I had hit my head. How else would I have been in a coma for this long?"

"Matthew, you… you didn't hit your head. Well, I mean you did, but that wasn't all. Your whole bloody car completely fell on you. You were half crushed to death. It was a bloody awful mess, makes me sick just thinking about it." Tom did, indeed, look a little green, but I couldn't think about that.

"What? Are you sure?"

"Do you think I'd make something like that up?!"

"But… But I feel fine. I look fine…" I said, staring down at my body again. It certainly didn't look like I'd been crushed to death. As before, I looked a bit paler I thought, but nothing more. Certainly not like a car had fallen on me.

"Man, have you seen your face recently?"

"No," I replied cautiously, a lump of apprehension building in my chest.

"Look," Branson said, gesturing to the mirrors of the car I was currently perched on.

Hesitantly I turned around to contemplate my reflection, and gasped slightly.  
I mean… it wasn't the worst thing I had seen, certainly not compared to some of the poor blokes who came out of the war. Nevertheless, my visage was rather shocking, and I couldn't blame Tom for his initial reaction. The dark streaks of mud contrasted alarmingly with my ghostly white flesh, and in between this mix were splotches of dark crimson. Evidently the side of my head had started leaking blood again, and the whole right side of my face and neck were coated in the sickly mixture. Additionally, the grime coated my hair, matting it down wildly. Finally, dark rings surrounded my eyes, as if I had been awake for days, although to the best of my knowledge I had been lying unmoving for the past half of a year.

"Crikey," I started, mesmerized by the ghastly image before me. "The last time I looked this bad was when I returned from the Somme."

"If then," Tom remarked.

"Well, obviously I'll need some washing up before I go about meeting anyone else. Good thing you never cared much about fancy appearances anyway," I said, turning back to Tom.

I saw the first hint of a smile on his face, before he answered more seriously, "Excuse me, Mr. Crawley, but if you think that a bit of dirt is the only problem you need to address before returning to the family, then that car crash really did knock all the sense out of ya."

"No," I responded solemnly, "I'm aware of the alarm my new… state of consciousness, shall we say, could cause. That's why I tried to find you first. I knew you'd be able to handle it."

"Ha, barely! I'm still plannin' on fixin' myself a strong drink as soon as I get back to the house, provided his lordship isn't around to disapprove of my 'Irish manners.'"

"Well, I can hardly begrudge you that. How is he fairing?"  
"Lord Grantham? Decently, I suppose. He took the first few weeks rather hard- we all did- but now he's doing his best to move on with business and the estate. But it's not going too well. You understand me better than anyone when I say that he's not too…"

"Innovative?" I supplied.

"Ha. That's one word for it," Tom agreed. "But it's not just the original renovations he's having problems with, although those are some of the difficulties. With the death taxes the estate has to face, I think he's buckling under the pressure.

"Sorry about that," I winced.

"It was damned inconsiderate of you," Tom joked. "However, between those and the regular financial problems, Robert's losing sight of the plans for the estate, and is rather convinced the old methods might be a faster way to fix the problem."

"Haven't you and… Mary…" (my voice caught on her name) "kept him straight though?"

"Me? I try. I keep hammering away, but Matthew, it's hard. He's warming up to me, sure, but it was always you he liked. It's still difficult for him to take orders from his Irish ex-chauffeur. And as far as Mary… I don't think you understand… she's been positively broken since you… left. I never thought I'd see the day, but it's as if all the fight has gone out of her. She's more a ghost than you are, especially at this point. I don't think she'd be much help in her current state even if Robert would let her help, although God knows I try to encourage her…"

My heart physically ached at his words, and as I imagined my beautiful, fierce, passionate Mary reduced to a shell of the woman she once was. The mere idea of it was too terrible to fathom. Within my grief, the rest of his words caught up to me.

"What do you mean, Robert won't let her? He has to; she owns my half of the estate now, and our son should be the new heir. Even if he ignores that, it still says so in my will, and he can't just pretend the law doesn't exist!"

Tom looked at me incredulously, "Matthew, you never made a will."

"What?" I rose to my feet, exasperated. "Of course I wrote a will! What kind of solicitor would I have been if I had never even made a will for myself! And I was in a war, dammit! You think I just skipped off to France and assumed everything would be peaches and cream? That would be bloody pigheaded of me."

"Well, that's what I thought! But there's no record of you having ever filed one."

"Utter rubbish. I kept one with Harvell and Carter."

"Well, then they must have lost it. No matter. Perhaps your existence can eliminate several of these problems. After all, we don't have to pay the death tax if you're not dead anymore."

I smiled painfully at Tom, "True, but I'm afraid we can't risk going that route just yet. Until we know more about my… condition… we can't risk assuming it's permanent. I could just keel over in the next hour again and this will all be for naught." The thought made us both uncomfortable, so I hurried on. "Besides, I can't even begin to imagine what a legislative nightmare that would be to determine what rights of an undead man are? I mean, am I still figured into the chain of succession for the earldom? Can I still own property? Do I still even count as a citizen?"

"Well, whatever else you are, you're still a lawyer through and through," Tom commented.

"If the British aristocracy couldn't knock it out of me ten years ago, what made you think the grave would?" I jested, then continued. "I guess at this point the most practical thing to do would be to find out anything more we can about my condition. After we are aware of more of the facts, we can decide whether or not it's safe for me to meet with the rest of the family… or if I'll just be dashing their hopes again… in the mean time, I'll try to track down that will, or think up a scheme to get Mary the share that's supposed to be hers. While I'm doing that, keep encouraging her, Tom, please. Downton needs her, and she needs Downton. The sooner she stops grieving over me, the better I'll feel, no matter where I am. Try… try to make her see that, Tom. If you need reinforcements, try enlisting Carson's aid. He's always looked out for what's best for her."

"Alright, Matthew, I'll do my best."

"Thanks. That's all I ask… now, about that bath?"

_Ok, I know I said Mary would be in this... but this chapter was already rather long. Plus that would have meant waiting even longer to update. So next time for sure. At least the bromance is back together again._


End file.
